


Feeling Gravity's Pull

by LilydaleXF



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s11e03 Plus One, Episode: s11e07 Rm9sbG93ZXJz, Episode: s11e09 Nothing Lasts Forever, F/M, Post-Episode: s11e02 This, Post-The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), Romance, Unremarkable house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 21:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilydaleXF/pseuds/LilydaleXF
Summary: Scully contemplates home as she and Mulder chat and clean up after falling asleep together on the couch. "This" post-ep.Major spoilers for "This," "Rm9sbG93ZXJz," and "I Want To Believe." Also, it's nice if you know what happens in "Plus One" and "Nothing Lasts Forever."





	Feeling Gravity's Pull

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anjou for kind beta, yet again.

Scully opens her eyes slowly as if she's unsure into what world she's waking. Which she still never quite is.

She fairly quickly ascertains that she is at Mulder's house. Everything in sight in the living room and kitchen is in major disarray, courtesy of the prior evening's uninvited visitors, with the floor barely visible through papers, books, and bruised fruit. Yet the house still looks and smells like him.

Without turning her head she glances to her right and sees Mulder beside her on the couch. His eyes are blinking funny to become clear in that disoriented way he has after not sleeping long enough. He obviously just woke up too.

After arriving back at the house and promptly falling asleep on the couch, they seem to have awoken within moments of one another. She does not put it past them to have unintentionally developed synced patterns that endure over time and distance.

She notes the color of the dusk sky through the window hinting that the sun recently ducked under the horizon. Her medical mind knows that light suppresses melatonin and thereby discourages sleep so the sun going down should foster sleep rather than interrupt it, but she long ago accepted that the rules of science do not always play predictable and fair for her and Mulder. The moon is rising, and her pulsing heart feels electric in her chest as the house and Mulder's face each come into clearer focus. Pretty soon the stars will be visible from the secluded house.

They sit silent and still for a long moment. He orients into action before she does. He rolls himself smoothly off the couch, then reaches a hand out to Scully. She's sunk into cushions like she's not only been recumbent on the couch for her entire life but that she's grown roots into it for good.

There was more than one late night in years past when they were not napping side to side like today but instead with her laying flat out on top of him. She always fell asleep before he did on the couch when they were ostensibly watching TV. They both knew she rarely wanted to watch any of his DVDs just as they both knew she would eat most of the popcorn after promising not to and that they would end up sprawled like driftwood with her head on him and tucked against his chin. The couch was terrible for his back with her body fully atop his, and his chest always failed to provide her the vertebral support she needed to avoid a stiff neck in the morning, but that didn't stop either of them from suggesting lazy TV nights so often that it became so one of them only had to walk over toward the cabinet of DVDs before the other was rearranging the pillows and blankets on the couch.

There is now only one blanket on the couch, most of the pillows are smooshed hidden in a closet, and the state of her neck does not merit frequent monitoring.

Tonight they were beside one another on the couch carefully not touching before she grabs his outstretched hand and uses it for leverage to stand upright.

"You have never looked more like a zombie, Scully."

She tosses a grimace at Mulder, but it's halfhearted and borne of habit rather than circumstance since her mouth hints at a smile. So does his.

She's a bit wobbly even with slightly outstretched arms. Her eyes are unfocused, her clothes are a wrinkled mess, and her hair has frizzed and curled haphazardly. She has lived the sort of life to know zombies, and as she looks down at herself, she assesses that this is indeed Dana Scully as a zombie.

He adds, "It's a surprisingly good look for you."

Her grimace does not diminish, but neither do her upturned lips.

Her feet shuffle in some files as they both scan the area afresh to assess its damage. The house really cannot stay this way.

"Should I start with the files and you start with the fruit and dinnerware?" he asks.

"Nah," she says, making a show of looking around. "I think I'll just go to my clean, perfect house. See ya."

The words popped out of her mouth with only the aforethought of being flippant and funny, but her sleep-dulled senses made the words sound far more serious than intended. Now they're both staring at each other without smiles and with brows crinkled in enough confusion to be pointedly apparent.

"If, uh, that's what you want, Scully...," he trails off.

She stands there feeling dumb and thoughtless.

He continues awkwardly, "I don't really expect you to help clean up my place."

"No, Mulder, I was kidding. I'll help."

She is well aware that she ruined the easy atmosphere he'd so amiably created with his zombie remarks as she starts to move around collecting fruit that had spilled from the kitchen table's full basket. He follows suit by starting to gather the most put-together of the files on the floor. They clean for many minutes in silence, which she hates but doesn't know how to break. He even helped her upturn the kitchen table without speaking. She summoned him over with just brief eye contact and a small flick of the head.

With neither of them looking at each other he abruptly asks, "Is your new house really perfect?" His voice is soft and carefully neutral, which to her seasoned ear does nothing but baldly expose his utter interest in her answer. He cares about her so much. It strikes her anew as if she never knew, as if it hadn't also struck her the very night before when they sat comfortably on the couch perusing files after a tandem-prepared home-cooked meal. The knowledge sends a little shock through her system that she doesn't bother to rationalize, much less ignore. She cares about him too.

She doesn't know how to explain her stark, high tech house to him. "It's modern," she says slowly. "It's smart. Practically everything is electronically controlled and hooked up to a central mainframe. Even the fridge."

He looks on with unfeigned interest, so she continues despite not knowing what else to say about the house that seemed like it would help relieve a number of stresses from her daily adult life. She failed to appreciate how much it would exacerbate other ones.

"It's quiet. There's a gas fireplace. Some walls are all windows. They're self-cleaning."

He raises a suspicious brow.

"They are! It's programmed into the mainframe. Sometimes I sit in the living room and watch the house take care of itself. It has timers for everything." _It's as if I'm not even there, not even needed_ , she silently adds.

"So, this smart house makes you coffee in the morning?"

"It does."

"Pulls the drapes at night?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Turns down the covers and folds up a blanket at your feet?"

"It's not quite there yet."

"Pfffff, the house and me both. You have very specific, very ridiculous blanket requirements, Scully."

"If the free edge is not facing the headboard and the blanket is not accordion folded, how else is one, when tired, in the dark, supposed to pull it up neatly and swiftly in immediate need?"

"Tell it to the mainframe," he says, holding a hand up to her palm out like a stop sign.

She can't help but smile as she shakes her head back and forth in mock disdain. She recalls that it was mostly irrelevant here in this house. She almost never needed a blanket with him warm at her side, hot in her hands.

"Would you like some coffee now, Mulder? It's sort of like morning for us."

He wavers, squints an eye. His inability to accept her simple gestures without evaluation is simultaneously endearing and maddening. In the past she would have simply acted without asking, but not living in this house anymore imparts an air of formality to her being here, fairly or unfairly, even though she could navigate its every nook and cranny with her eyes closed. Including with the entire first floor in its current state of only slightly mitigated chaos.

"I'm on kitchen detail. I'm making coffee," she decides for them both.

As the coffee maker starts its gurgling and she sets two matching green mugs on the kitchen table she watches Mulder. She leans a hip against the table, exacerbating the ache she feels from dropping on and sliding along the floor earlier. She wonders how on Earth that could have been only a day ago.

Mulder is focused on stacking papers in piles that look suspiciously orderly for what she knows of his filing system.

Her eyes follow his small movements for an extended time before they drift away from him and to the corner of the room where there's a closed door.

Years ago, when the house was still somewhat new to them, Mulder didn't often leave the front room he turned into an office. It was a veritable fire hazard of papers. He would stay in there for hours at a time. Usually didn't even keep the door open. He was a wild wanted bearded man holed up in a mysterious dark lair. He took to telling her to knock three times on the door for him to come a'callin' out of the office and into her orbit. Those are words he used, "a'callin'" and "orbit." _I'll revolve around you for as long as you'll let me_ , she remembers.

Her head spins now on its own celestial path. This house is a burning star, and she feels drawn in by gravity.

She wishes she could click her heels together three times and be transported magically home like Dorothy from Oz because then she would know where home is.

_I have a home_ , she tells herself, _and it is currently watering its own lawn and monitoring the energy efficiency of its safety flood lighting_.

"Are you tapped out, Scully?" he breaks into her thoughts. He's kneeling on the floor with his hands resting solid on his thighs as he peers up at her from across the room.

"No," she half chuckles. It's funny how far she feels from being done here. He doesn't know that, though, and his face is questioning. "I was just thinking about this house. I like it. I mean, not so much right now when it's a disaster, but this is a good house."

"It is," he agrees carefully with the questioning on his face spread to his voice.

"I'm not sure about my house," she confesses.

If he's trying to suppress surprise, or maybe it's relief, he's failing. "Really? It holds too much control for Dr. Scully, Type A?"

"Sort of. It has no center." She pauses, her thoughts on the matter muddled and new. "It's just there. Just walls and chrome and shiny wood and nothing. Empty space was put there as a feature, not a flaw."

"Hmmm," he pretends to ponder. "Do you need me to come over and mess up the place? I am confident I can do so with very minimal effort."

She tilts her head, a little bemused and a little chagrined. "You know you're welcome there any time, Mulder."

"Am I?"

The question surprises her, but only for a moment. It dawns on her that neither of them ever suggest anywhere other than restaurants or this house for all the time they spend time together outside of work.

"Of course," she says simply.

They stare silently at one another. It's awkward but not uncomfortable. She keeps looking at him as her knuckles knock three times on the table.

He too keeps his eyes on her as he rises and moves fluidly across the room. Her arms outstretch as he approaches. Their arms wrap around one another in the shape of an orbital path, holding tight.


End file.
